Fiction
Men with and without Women
Therese. By Francois Mauriac. Translated by Eric Sutton. (Martin Seeker. 68.) Kai-Lung Unrolls His Mat. By Ernest Bramah. (The Richards Press. 7s. 6d.) IN the desolate region of the landes, all heath and marsh and lagoon and pine forest moaning like the sea, the Therese of Francois Mauriac grows heavily like a white flower whose honey has turned to poison in her heart. She has tried to kill her husband, who, for the sake of his family honour, commits perjury to save her from justice, but passes his own sentence on her. The book consists chiefly of the reminiscent reveries of Therese, first as she journeys from the Court to meet Bernard, and thereafter as she lies imprisoned in her room from dusk to dusk while the rains drive outside and her spirit escapes in feverish fantasies. Pale, with great burning eyes, she murmurs with her husky intonation, " I did not want to play a part." After tortures of self-analysis, this is all the motive she can present in words. But we have been made to
realize that her cheated imagination, her unsatisfied intellect, have created a malady in her. The crudities of-herrespeetable marriage, the tyrannies of the family convention have reduced her to the deadly state of accidia, and in the apathy of the summer day when the pine forests are burning; she thinks death towards Bernard, much as an oppressed dreamer tries to push away a suffocating obstacle. The close comprehension of the soul of Therese leaves an original and startling impression. The cold crime of poisoning is revealed as a natural revolt of the imaginative against the unimaginative, and the criminal as of much finer stuff than the victim. There remains something enigmatic about Therese, however ; and if M. Mauriac knows what she will find when he leaves her in the Paris street, the reader is uncertain. Yet she is not easily forgotten, nor her cruel heathen region, where the larks are shot as they soar, and the pigeons are blinded as decoys.
The figures of the few men around Therese are shadowy compared with' hers. Mr. Hemingway's Men without Women obviously oinits the feminine principle—except in the deadly dialogue called " White Elephants." These are emphatically conies cruets ; but two or three are superb examples of the short story. Moments of animal endurance and fear, fragments of war-horror, the stolidities and bravadoes of despair or insensibility, the ironies of the bull-fight and the boxing ring—such are the themes. Men with expressionless faces maintain colourless colloquies in which the senseless iterations create a mounting horror. " The Killers " is a terrible little story, perfect in its way ; " Fifty Odd " is too long ; " Friday Night " conveys an electrifying shock which is nearly justified ; but " An Alpine Idyll" outrages aesthetic as well as human sensibility. Mr. ..ldek.iingway should not push cynicism beyond even his virtuosity.
Mr. Bullett's The World in Bud regards humanity in a somewhat kindlier mood, though not without gleams of malice. Some of these curiously flavoured stories have a certain constraint, for Mr. Bullett is more at ease in a novel ; but they form an attractive collection of unusual episodes. " The Orchard " is sweet with spring ; the supernatural note does not ring quite true. The name story, however, is sharp and sincere with the cry of a child's first acquaintance with death. " The Puritan " is a grim piece of satire, and " The Mirror " achieves an odd effect in pathos.
It is only unsated youth that could bear to see the vivid bars of Neapolitan Ice crossing the cover of a first novel ; but the image of that brilliant sweet hardly does justice to the dewy quality of Miss Haynes's book. Sylvia Verney's fastidious father has married out of pity a vulgar, second-rate actress, who makes her dwelling as " Bohemian " as possible. Sylvia tries to realize her personality in Oxford. Life at St. Ursula's College is characterized by that intense femininity and that passion for unholy foods like cocoa which must ward off even the immemorial spells of Oxford. Yet one gets a
quite charming impression of bright irresponsible creatures ,moving about in a clear golden air. Sylvia has her friendships and conversations. In the end she falls prettily though unfortunately in love with her kinsman, Crispin, with whom she takes long walks in a fragrantly realized countryside. The candid and eager intelligence of Sylvia makes the whole
story very engaging. This first novel has distinct qualities of style, words being used with an admirable exactitude. it has vivacity, sensibility, and promise.
Those who are acquainted with the courteous and philoso- phic Kai-Lung, and take delight in his, elaborate stylization, will be charmed to hear his smooth accents again, while new passers-by will pause enchanted where he unrolls his mat. Through the malignity of his enemy, Ming-Shu, the story teller is despoiled of his all, including the beloved Hwa-mei. Undaunted, he begins the pursuit, with his golden tongue bewitching all those whom he encounters till he, craftily rescues Hwa-mei, and avenges his wrongs. His ingenuity is only very faintly fatigued ; and the profound wells of his
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